


Two-Love, New Set

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [5]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Mary initiates their encounters, but she doesn’t consider them a Thing.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	Two-Love, New Set

When Hilda had first met Miss Wardwell a few years ago when Sabrina had been a freshman, it had been a whole different ball game. 

Then, Wardwell had taught ninth grade civics and a handful of sections of tenth and eleventh grade English, had been the National Honor Society sponsor, had been on the Parent Teacher Organization executive committee, had been subtly and quietly put together and staid in appearance and manner. And hadn’t paid any attention whatsoever to Hilda except for polite conversation at parent-teacher events.

Somehow between then and now, there’s been some switch flipped. Wardwell’s now, instead, the acting principal, teaches one section of civics and one section of junior English, assistant coaches the varsity girls’ tennis team, is draped in form-fitting short leather skirts and wears her hair bigger than her opinionated red mouth. And now calls Hilda at all hours to participate in schemes and sex.

Hilda does wonder about this change, but people have the prerogative to transform themselves, live their best lives. Mary keeps her too busy to really ponder too long. The juxtaposition usually comes to her in her dreams, and she wakes up sweaty and confused and searching, not remembering what had happened during the night in her subconscious to make her so.

So Hilda enjoys this for what it is. Just strange fun, a little secret treasure for only herself. No strings, no thoughts, no declarations, no confessions, no consequences. Well. No consequences yet and hopefully no consequences ever.

For now, they’re oiled up and on their stomachs at a couples massage following a doubles tennis match. 

The two best players on the girls’ varsity tennis team had requested extra practice because they were headed to State. And Wardwell had been obligated to take her turn working them out. So she’d called Hilda to partner with the senior while Wardwell would be alongside the promising sophomore. 

“But don’t you have one of those ball shooter machines?” Hilda had said when Mary had phoned just after dinner on a Friday with the next day’s schedule. Mary had laughed, said,

“Yes. It’s called a 12 gauge.” Hilda had snickered but then kept on:

“But why couldn’t you—I don’t know—have them play against each other? Why do I need to be involved?”

“They do that all the time. Both of them need a challenge. A handicap.” Hilda had huffed. She prided herself on being quite good at tennis. “And besides,” Mary had finished, “don’t you want to see me in one of those little white skirts?”

It hadn’t been her best line, but it had been effective enough.

Hilda’s team had won, but Wardwell still had made both high schoolers run the same laps afterward, execute the same burpees, serve ball after ball until their shoulders ached. Hilda had sat in the stands drinking her just now defrosted Gatorade which she had frozen the night before for the occasion, staring at Mary’s glistening, maniacal profile under the brim of her white visor. She had been wondering if Mary was a secret sadist. 

“What do you think Miss Kingston is up to right now?” Mary says, voice muted against the padded headrest.

And now as the large Swedish masseuse manipulates her hamstrings and she processes Mary’s question—sounding so deliberately and suspiciously innocent—she decides that Mary probably is a little sadistic indeed.

“I wish you’d quit teasing me about her,” Hilda says, also muted against the headrest.

“I’m not teasing. I’m asking.” Hilda hears rustling and then a clearer, “I think she’s into you.” Hilda sits up on her elbows, looks over into Mary’s expectant face, says,

“That’s only because you think everyone is into me.”

Mary raises her eyebrows but then shrugs and collapses back onto the headrest. Hilda takes this to mean the discussion is over and also relaxes back into her former position, enjoys the rest of her massage in silence.

But forty-five minutes later when their respective massage therapists have finished and exited and Hilda is lying on her back staring at the white ceiling listening to the weird new-age hippie music playing softly as she relishes the tingle of rejuvenated muscles, Mary’s uncharacteristically light and musical and dreamy voice wafts over to her:

“But have I been wrong yet? About everyone being into you?”

Hilda sighs. She’s not ready to talk quite yet. But she braces herself as she considers, as she remembers. She breathes heavily, says reluctantly,

“That redhead at that fancy party who you said couldn’t keep her eyes off me did in fact slip me her extra hotel room keycard.” She can hardly remember the woman’s face, but even through the champagne haze she knows it’s an incident that did occur. An inconsequential incident before she and Mary had fucked in the small industrial kitchen in that penthouse which had been tucked away behind the little stage. She had been propped up on a stainless steel sink, and Mary had been in front of her, hands exploring her thighs underneath the silk gown, tongue taking her mouth increasingly wantonly, fingers gripping and wandering increasingly wantonly. Mary must have bribed the catering staff to have vacated, probably with pot.

“See? I have an eye for it,” Mary says. It’s a knife against the bright clean air of the massage parlor. “Now, let’s see how we can get you and Miss Kingston together.”

A sudden chill, and Hilda pulls the sheet up over her nude flesh, says,

“Is this your way of breaking up with me?”

“Oh absolutely not. Firstly, we’re not together. Secondly, I have no intention of changing our relationship. I just know that you want more than… what I can give you, and you ought to have it. Whatever it is.”

Hilda hums in thought and stands. This could be one of those consequences she’s been avoiding. Not all consequences are bad necessarily, she justifies to herself. But that doesn’t mean she wants to have this conversation, though, so she reaches for her pile of clothes and begins dressing as she says,

“And what I want is for you to get on my level, Wardwell. If you ever want to play tennis with me again, you’re going to have to work on that abysmal backhand of yours.”

“I’ll admit you are rather more ambidextrous than I am.” She rounds her massage table, sidles up behind Hilda and presses her still naked front against Hilda’s mostly still naked back. “Give me a few pointers?”

“I think we have to pay extra if we use the room outside of its intended purposes.” 

Mary reaches around and takes Hilda’s hands, stills them from straightening the wonky strap of the bra that she’s about to put on. Mary husks into her ear,

“I pre-paid, fully knowing my intentions.”

“Cheeky.”

xxx

The Baxter High gymnasium is all done up in a papier-mâché rainforest motif, lit with fairy lights and fake battery-operated tiki torches. Students and faculty alike are dressed racistly as “natives” with a lot of elaborate nonsensical face paint and polyester grass skirts or bizarre abominations of faux fur and eyeliner to pass as forest creatures of some sort or another. There’s even one particularly off-putting junior who has hobbled together an almost too-convincing fruit bat ensemble.

“Saving the Rainforest” is the National Honor Society’s overarching cause of the semester, and they’re holding a bake sale and dance as a fundraiser.

Miss Wardwell is no longer the National Honor Society sponsor. Now it’s Charlotte Kingston— algebra 2, trigonometry, and calculus teacher—who has picked up National Honor Society sponsorship.

But still the acting principal has appeared to show her support. And she’s dragged her lady friend along without telling said lady friend what the circumstances of their night out would entail. She’d merely told Hilda to wear leopard print and had picked her up precisely at six, had fussed over her in the foyer and made sure her décolletage was exactly right and framed by golden hair exactly right. 

They walk into the gymnasium side by side but not arm in arm. Mary had made that clear on the car ride over—that they had ridden together but Hilda was not beholden unto her.

Hilda almost kind of gets at least part of it as she takes in the decor. Mary is all in black: the idea and attitude of a panther more than the actual look of one. And she’s supposed to be a jaguar or something. Jungle cats on the prowl. For something. For some reason.

Mary leans into her. There’s no physical contact made as she does so. They’re playing Not Together. It’s a new game, and Hilda doesn’t know the rules quite yet. But she inclines her ear as Mary says just loud enough over the thumping music,

“NHS bake sale. Bake sales are definitely in your wheelhouse.” She cuts her eyes toward the long folding table full of sweets and then pointedly focuses on the end of the table, where Miss Kingston, in a sleeveless fuchsia blouse and a headband with cat ears, sits behind a cash register. “Silver platter, sweetheart,” Mary says and then glides away toward the punch table as she slides a hand quickly and mostly surreptitiously beneath her skirt to produce a flask from her garter.

Hilda’s still watching Mary spike her own punch and replace the flask back to a place she’s seen and touched and licked that most people could only dream about as she approaches the bake sale table.

Miss Kingston looks up at her, blinks, and then she’s smiling. A full, real beauty-pageant-winner smile of teeth and eye crinkles. 

“Miss Spellman. I didn’t expect you. What a pleasure.” Her accent and her biceps dance in Hilda’s brain.

“Sweet talker,” Hilda says. She’s glad for the relative dark to hide her splotchy embarrassment. “But I’m a little offended…” She ducks her head, and it has the right effect.

“Oh no! Why? I’ve been raised my entire life to be genteel, and to offend such a lady as you—”

“You know I’m the best baker in the county, and you didn’t call me—”

Miss Kingston stands, and it’s not just a sleeveless blouse. It’s a tastefully cut pleated dress, and Hilda has to bite her lip not to swoon at the sight of tanned knees and lower thighs.

Miss Kingston places a hand on Hilda’s upper arm, says,

“I didn’t want to impose. A generous, kind, thoughtful woman is always so inclined to overextend herself. And I didn’t want to be a party to that.”

Hilda drags her gaze up Miss Kingston’s svelte form and makes eye contact, says,

“And what might you want to be a party to?”

There’s suddenly more heat in the space around them. Hilda is warm from the flirtation, but she recognizes this new heat as different, outside herself. It’s Mary Wardwell. That unnaturally warm woman. She knows it before she sees it.

Hilda turns her head to find her with her eyes just as Mary grabs her by the bicep, says to Kingston,

“Something urgent’s come up. If you’ll excuse us.”

She drags a stunned and waving-goodbye Hilda into the stairwell and furiously kicks at the doorstop, pulls the ancient metal fire door closed with a dramatic, lurching bang. She turns to Hilda, body calm with hands primly clasped in front of her, but her eyes are wild. She says,

“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind.”

“About what?” Hilda says, a little dread pricking at the back of her neck.

“As it turns out, I am, previously unbeknownst to me, the jealous type.”

“This was your idea!” Hilda says.

“A bad one. We all have them from time to time.”

Mary shoves at Hilda’s shoulders gently but insistently until Hilda is sitting on the landing. Mary says,

“I’m so glad your bad idea is making time for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hilda’s sport is definitely tennis. Idk why but I said what I said.


End file.
